Saturday, October 22, 2005

Index: On the Local Writing Scene

  • Issues

  • Readings by Local Writers (at Darling Muse/ 67 Jalan Tempinis 1/ Maya Gallery/ La Bodega/ Silverfish)

  • MPH Writer's Circle:

Catch 'Em Young

Bound up for many years with the problems and shortcomings in the education system here, I sometimes lose sight of the fact that things are not going so swimmingly in British schools.

It's very upsetting to realise that newer curriculm innovations are undermining the progress of the past: the highly prescriptive National Literacy Strategy with it's emphasis on measurable results and test scores clearly is not working. (Actually I'm resisiting the urge to say "I told you so." Because anyone with that rare commodity, common-sense, could have seen this coming.)

The Bookseller reports that a report produced last week:
... made depressing but predictable reading. The five-year study of English teaching in schools found nearly a third of all primary lessons "no better than satisfactory"; a fifth of children starting secondary school fail to reach the minimum standard of literacy expected for their age; and--important for publishers--schools are still failing to inspire children to read independently or for pleasure.
The article quotes children's author Bernard Ashley : "If children aren't enjoying and wanting books at seven, they aren't going to be rushing out and buying them at 21. ... If you set a restricted diet of targets in reading and writing--the back to basics appeal to middle England--you get culturally undernourished children."

Sideline the joy of books and you don't get readers further down the line, it's as simple as that. No market for books. No writers of note.

And that is what is very largely going wrong in Malaysia too. We lack a reading culture here because kids have not learned to love books at school. School libraries are hopelessly understocked for the most part. The scope of classreader programmes limited. The set texts for examinations ... well let's just say that they are a little uninspiring and leave it at that for today because it's a hobby-horse I may not get off for a very long time. (Another day, then ...)

The kids who do learn to love books here do so, by and large, because their parents value books, read to them and take them to bookshops and libraries. Not because of what's happening in schools.

(I wrote, with very mixed feelings, sometime ago about one intitiative to put books in the hands of kids in schools.)

I think too that the local bookshops need to play a more proactive role in promoting books for children.

I was talking one day to a marketing manager of one of the bigger bookstores. He was complaining about parents parking their kids in the store while they went off shopping. The children did their "free-reading" (that great Malaysian pastime!) and then left the books lying, a little soiled and dog-eared all over the place. Why not, I said, encourage the free reading? Put piles of fun books out for kids to pick up and read and rejoice in the fact that they're in your shop and picking up books at all? Why not have some friendly clued-up folks to help the kids find books they'd like to read? Okay, so you might not make a sale today. But the process of becoming a bookworm is insiduous. Today's noisy little terrors are tomorrow's hopeless bookaholics. You are growing your customer base by caring for your youngest readers.

I'm thinking a lot about kid's books at the moment because I'm working on a very long list of children's titles to buy for The British Council library over the next few months ...

Friday, October 21, 2005

Still Howling After All These Years

It's fifty years this month since one of the most influential and widely read poems ever was written:

Howl
by Allen Ginsberg.

A poem he intended as an "emotional time bomb that would continue exploding". And has.

A song of spiritual liberation, a homage to art, an ode to gay love and a lament for his mentally ill mother.

A great turning point for poetry. Capturing the rebellious, hungry, anguished voice of disillutioned youth. Capturing the vernacular speech of the people. Talking straight to the heart.

Performed. Not dead on the page. Not consigned to ivory towerdom. At a time when poets just didn't read their work aloud.

Provoked a storm of moral outrage in America. Was the subject of an obscentity trial.

That's an awful lot for one poem to do.


So celebrate.

Go print off a copy.

Go into the bathroom.

Read it aloud to feel the energy bouncing off the tiled walls.

Vibrating off bathtaps.

Feel it reverberate in the words you pen after. Writing from the deep and dangerous and angry and true place inside yourself. Which is the only place you have any right to write from.


In a strange attack of synchronicity I came across Ginsberg's essays Deliberate Prose by the bread counter in Cold Storage (RM9.90!) a few days ago. This is what he said about writing Howl.
I thought I wouldn't write a poem, but just write what I wanted to without fear, let my imagination go, open secrecy and scribble magic lines from my real mind - sum up my life - something I wouldn't be able to show anybody, writ for my own soul's ear and a few other golden ears. ... the first section typed out madly in one afternoon, a tragic custard-pie comedy of wild phrasing, meaningless images for the beauty ...

You can read more about the poem and the waves it created here.

You can listen to NPR's programme about Howl here and hear Ginsberg read his lines.


Thursday, October 20, 2005

Reading Romesh


Novelist Romesh Gunesekera is going to be in KL next month, his visit sponsored by The British Council. He's participating in the Worlds in Discourse conference organised by Universiti Kebangsaan Malaya (UKM) from 21-23 November.

Mark down 24th November in your diaries because that's when he's going to be reading from a selection of his works at Silverfish on at 7 p.m. .

Romesh was born in 1954 in Sri Lanka and moved to England in 1971. His first novel, Reef (1994), won a Yorkshire Post Book Award (Best First Work) and was shortlisted for both the Booker Prize for Fiction and the Guardian Fiction Prize. You can read more about him and his works here.

I had had Reef sitting on my 'to be read' shelf for a very long time. (More bookguilt!) I picked it up the other day and am really enjoying it. (And it's short - only 190 pages in an age where litfic always seems to be bloated!)

I managed to pick up copies of his Monkfish Moon and The Sandglass at Silverfish. Raman has brought in copies from India so they are a bit cheaper. Guess who's busy doing her homework right now?

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Malaysia's Very Own Katherine Hepburn?

Yeah, sure.

Aneeta asked me to do an e-mail interview for her and I'm just sorry that she had to keep chasing me to get it finished. So if you're curious to know a bit more about this strange mat salleh, follow the trail of breadcrumbs to Aneeta's site.

Check out some of the other interesting articles and interviews too while you're there.

Kakiseni at Alexis

Last night Kakiseni threw a bash at Alexis for contributors. The online arts magazine is growing from strength to strength (now it gets 19,000 page views a day). It's one of my favourite places to hangout online - the articles are intelligent (have to be, I write for them, right?) and the comments readers leave spark off some great debate about the state of the arts here.

You know me, hey. I love parties. I'm happiest in a crowd of folks I can really talk to. I hunger like mad for conversation about books, about the arts in general. About the direction things are taking.

Sorry if what follows sounds like the social pages of Harper's or something!

Of course, met a lot of good friends, among them Kakiseni editor Pang, Jerome, Zedeck, and Bernice.

Kathy Rowland (who got voted sexiest kakiseni writer slightly ahead of Zedeck - snap him up for modelling, someone!) and Jenny Daneels co-founders and co-directors of Kakiseni were of course there. Chatted to that lovable eccentric Hishamuddin Rais. Nodded in the direction of Ray Langenbach (can't look at him in the same way since I read about him drinking his own blood in Hishamuddin's article). Had a long and fascinating conversation with Toni of Sisters in Islam, an organisation I very much admire. Chatted to Tony Twigg, currently artist in residence at Rimbu Dahan, and his wife Gina Fairley.

Also made the aquaintance of the very inspiring Benjamin McKay who is researching the history of the Malay film for his PhD. thesis. We were talking about the parallels between indie film-making and the local publishing scene (small presses, self-publishing). Agree with him that we need a lot of "so-so stuff" out there because that is where the potential will develop. ("But not crap, crap is worth condemning.")

Came away with tummy nicely full (hope no-one noticed me in embarrassingly close proximity to the mini-pavlovas for much of the evening!) and a heart newly inspired.

Okaylah, might even write another article!

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

If You Want to Break Into Films

Razlina from 95% Writer's Academy e-mailed me yesterday to say that she will be starting the next Story Writers in Progress training after Raya. There is apparently a special discount of RM200 on the fees if you sign up on Saturday. You might just want to drop by anyway as the academy is hosting a couple of talks:

It's A Crime!

If Dickens were alive today he would be writing genre fiction or churning out soaps for TV.
Discuss with reference to at least five episodes of CSI London.

Okay, okay I'm being completely fascetious. I'm as guilty as anyone. of not taking genre fiction as seriously as that which we dub *"literary fiction" a.k.a. the real stuff, the hardcore.

The Guardian yesterday quite rightly rapped my pretentious knuckles:
What is it, when Man Booker juries meet, that makes genres "inferior"? ... Why is crime writing, with its "very conscious structure" and ability to raise "big moral issues" outside the box of introversion, such a poor relation of "literary fiction"?
Truth is, a "very conscious structure" to me reeks of predictability and formulaic writing.

Give me genre fiction that subverts the genre and I will be thrilled. Just as I'm thrilled to read the "literary" novel which breaks new ground.

Give me an elegantly turned plot, language that's so rich I want to drink it, characters I can care about, deeper issues to keep me awake at night just wondering, wondering. And I won't care what kind of fiction you call it.

There are crime writers who manage it. Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr. Ripley, for example, caught me completely off balance - how does she get the reader to side with the truly despicable Ripley? Yet we do. And in the process are forced to confront our own definitions of "moral behaviour".

Yet I really don't think it's true to say there is no genre fiction on Booker shortlists - it's just that the kind of authors who make it that far tend to play with the narrow definitions of genre. Is Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin science fiction or detective story? Both and more.

Atwood has also written some of the best "speculative" fiction (i.e. sci-fi that could happen) - the chilling Oryx and Crake (nightmares free of charge) and The Handmaid's Tale (so prophetic in it's vision of the religious extremism sweeping America).

Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell on last year's shortlist wraps a story within a story within a story and incorporates several genres - thriller, fantasy, comedy ... and each one superb.

Julian Barnes Arthur and George is a historical novel which is also centres on the solving of a crime.

Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell was not only shortlisted for the Booker but also also bagged the Hugo award for science ficition writing and the Mythopoetic award for fantasy.

In the end it isn't so much a choice between Literary fiction and genre, as between the straightforward and fomulaic and the multilayered and surprising.

I know which I'd rather have!

(*By the way, hadn't really realised until Tash's talk at Silverfish that American fiction does not recognise such artificial distinctions.)


Postscript:

Even deep-end litfic types dabble in genre. The Elegant Variation has the news that Banville is headed in that direction next.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Fallen City

Here's a book I didn't enjoy at all. Didn't even finish it - wimped out a little over halfway with only a feeling of relief.

The City of Falling Angels is set in Venice and revolves around the author's inquiry into the fire which destroyed the Fenice Opera House. Along the way he meets all kinds of eccentrics (feuding glassblowers, rat catchers, itinerant plant salesman, American expats) and paints an unflattering portrait of the city's underbelly. Berendt uncovers some fascinating material but fails to make the most of it - it reads like background research waiting for a novel to happen. But the writing plods and is at times dismaying clumsy.

I also can't fathom why there are no pictures at all. Is it just assumed that we know our way around the architecture and geography of Venice? I certainly don't.

Berendt is best known for his Pulitzer winning Midnight in The Garden of Good and Evil his 1994 book (non-fiction but with some invented scenes!) about a murder in Savannah, Georgia. I have a copy on my shelves but haven't yet read it. There was also a film made of it. This time though, he doesn't get the formula right.

Can't help thinking that it would be fun to write a non-fiction novel like this about another historical city slowly sinking into the mud of ineptitude and indifference - our own Malacca.

Kunzru Makes An Impression

Last Monday night it was my turn to host supper for my book club buddies and the book under discussion was The Impressionist by Hari Kunzru.


I was a bit shamefaced because I hadn't quite got to the end (had to read other stuff for review and am not the fastest anyway, especially when I'm enjoying the writing). By unanimous verdict the book was declared excellent.

Now that doesn't happen all that often ... the last time this happened was with Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance and the time before that with Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible.

The Impressionist is about a half-cast boy, conceived during a flash flood when his forester father is rescued by a young woman on her way across the desert to her arranged marriage. (Not very a likely occurrence? Far crazier things happen in this book, be warned.)

Pran is brought up in luxury and revered for his fair skin, but when his true parentage is revealed, he is cast out onto the streets to fend for himself. A born-survivor, the boy takes on different identities and reinventing himself at every turn. He makes an epic journey through the turbulent Indian subcontinent, and later to England and West Africa.

The Impressionist is a hilarious romp of a book, wonderfully farcical. It's richly imagined, and replete with historical detail. The characters are delightfully eccentric - the British coming off particularly badly (as they surely deserve to).

It's a novel about empire, but also about identity. And it sparked off good discussion about racial identity and "fitting in" in the Malaysian context.

Yes, this one comes very highly recommended.

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Beryl On Bernice

A very moving and funny tribute in the Guardian by Beryl Bainbridge writing about her friend, the writer Bernice Rubens who died last year.
Some of our closeness was due to a certain similarity in the way our lives had begun, and progressed. As children we had both felt out of step, told lies, felt we were hard done by. As adults we had loved the men we married and they had walked away, crashing our hopes, after which we had gone in for gentleman callers. Both of us used fiction to make sense of the past. Both of us believed that had we been happier neither of us would have needed to write. The title of her memoir, When I Grow Up, is apt; we were both waiting for that to happen.
Oh gosh, I hope I'm still waiting to grow up at 75!

Rubens turns out to be the just-jump-into-it-type of novelist which is the only kind I know I can ever be:
Bernice wrote every day, working in pencil, and never knew from one page to another where the story was leading.
And I so admire Rubens attitude to housework:
When her oven got too messy or the books overflowed her shelves, she sold up and moved down the road.
And doesn't this holiday sound such fun? :
She was generous, immensely so. When her book Mother Russia made a lot of money, she invited Paul Bailey, Jeremy Trevathan and myself, with her brother Cyril and sister Janet, to stay in a villa in Majorca. We sunbathed all day and played charades into the moonlit small hours.
Just loved this portrait of a precious friendship. Loved its reminder of what really is important in life. Above fame and wealth and recognition - friendship that lasts the course.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Six Pantuns For Lost Love

Layang-layang di atas bukit,
Kayu tengar dari seberang,
Cinta sayang bukan sedikit,
Racun penawar tuan seorang.

Above the hill the swallows wing,
Tall mangroves from the further shore,
My love is not a little thing,
You're both the poison and the cure.

Semalam saya mimpikan bulan,
Nyiur gugur dengan tandannya.
Tidur semalam mimpikan tuan,
Rasa kutidur di bantal lengannya.

Last night about the moon I dreamt,
And tumbling nuts of coco-palm.
Last night, with you in dreams I spent,
And pillowed lay upon your arm.

Kiri-jalan, kakan pun jalan,
Sama tengah pokok mengkudud.
Kirim jangan, pesan pun jangan,
Sama-sama menahan rindu.

Right and left a path is broken,
Round a small morinda tree.
Give no message, send no token,
Let our longing dormant be!

Laju, laju perahu laju,
Lajunya smapai Suraya.
Lupa kain, lupa baju,
Tetapi jangan lupakan saya.

Speed speed, swift boat upon your way!
The pace for Surabaya's set.
Forget your coat, or wrap you may,
But me I pray, do not forget.

Pucuk pauh, delima batu,
Anak sembilang di tapak tangan.
Sungguh jauh, negeri satu,
Hilang di mata, di hati jangan.

A ruby and a mango shoot,
A tiny catfish on my palm!
The world is one, tho' far to boot,
When out of sight keep memory warm.

Permata jatuh di dalam rumpuit,
Jatuh di rumput bergilang-gilang.
Kasih umpana embun di hujung rumput,
Datang matahari nescaya hilang.

Gems may fall to earth, alas!
Scintillating on the lawn.
Love is dew on blades of grass,
Bound to fade when comes the dawn.

From Malay Pantuns A.W. Hamilton

Friday, October 14, 2005

Pinter Bags Nobel


Well, Pinter got the Nobel. Was it just for his art or also because of his outspoken views on the U.S. involvement in and his opposition to Blair? He has long raged against
"... the nightmare of American hysteria, ignorance, arrogance, stupidity and belligerence; the most powerful nation the world has ever known effectively waging war against the rest of the world."
One after my own heart, in other words.

I've been out of touch with what Pinter has been writing in more recent times I must confess (as my cheeks redden with bookguilt), but read his early plays while I was a student and they have inhabited my head ever since.

In fact every time I have a conversation with my husband I find myself thinking "Hmmm ... that little dialogue wouldn't be out of place in a Pinter play." Those of you who haven't a clue what I'm talking about better go read Pinter, and you will fathom it immediately.

Postscript:

The Elegant Variation has compiled an excellent list of Pinter links.

Banned Books

My bibliobibulous prose has reached the glossies! I have a piece in this months edition of new men's magazine chrome.

(SMART//SHARP//SEXY reads the cover. That of course refers to the writers. Too bad about the rest of you.)

There among the oiled torsos and designer stubble and the lip-glossed pouting pretty boys is my article They Ban Books, Don't They?

No prizes for guessing who the "they" is.

But what came as a huge surprise to me writing the article was just how many books simply do not make it onto the shelves of bookshops. Apart from the more high profile cases where organisations like the DAP or religious bodies kick up a fuss, no announcement is made about what is banned.

Anyway, I guess we must just accept that the Kementarian Keselematan Dalam Negeri (The Ministry of Internal affairs) has the interests of all Malaysians at heart. It would be too bad if you had access to information not sanctioned by a government body. Those in power are always wiser than you. They do not need to explain their actions.

And yes, it would be terrible if you had access to banned books like Thousand and One Nights (a.k.a. The Arabian Nights). Don't, whatever you do, spend time here.



And please avoid taking a peek at Khalil Gibran's The Prophet. It has been banned in Malaysia since 1992, never mind that it has been described as "one of the most inspirational works to come from any modern poet in the Arab world". (Psssst, you want to buy a copy? Just e-mail me ...)



It's quite obvious too that Lady Chatterley's Lover is a corrupting influence. It doesn't matter that it is a tender love story which shows the spiritual and regenerative powers of sex. The authorities have decided that it is smut and out of bounds for you. There's a lot more sex in last year's Booker prize winner. Explicit gay sex into the bargain. Come to that, there is more sex in just about any novel you pick up nowadays. All of them should be banned.

I end here due to sheer lack of energy, not from a shortage of books to talk about. If you want to read more you'll have to buy chrome.

(And if I can't tempt you, Dina Zaman has a great piece in it telling guys how to buy lingerie for their women. Lady Chatterley - eat your heart out!)

Thursday, October 13, 2005

The Lexus and the Olive Tree at La Bodega

This blog seems to be getting updated hourly!

Here's an ad (and I don't even charge!) for my friend Fiona's book club:
Book of the Month: The Lexus and The Olive Tree by Thomas Friedman
Date: October 17th, 2005 (Monday)
Time: 8.30pm
Venue: La Bodega Lounge, Bangsar Baru
My contact: 012 3241217

We're going to be discussing globalization - this book is so superb!
When I first saw it on the shelf I was daunted by the topic but Friedman makes it understandable for the lay-don't-know-much-about-current-affairs person such as me.


Now Accepting Bets For The Nobel

If having torn up our Booker betting slips (while the bookies gleefully rub their hands together at Banville's unexpected win) you have withdrawal symptoms, Old Hag points that it's time to lay your bets for ther next big one - the Nobel Prize for Literature.

I checked for the latest odds at Ladbrokes and they looked like this:
Adonis 2.75
Joyce Carol Oates 8.00
Philip Roth 10.00
Thomas Transtromer 10.00
Ko un 13.00
Milan Kundera 13.00
Claudio Magris 15.00
Hugo Claus 15.00
Orhan Pamuk 15.00
Pramoedya Ananta Toer 15.00
Antoni Tabucchi 21.00
Harold Pinter 21.00
Ryszarda Kapuscinskiego 21.00
Amos Oz 26.00
Cees Nooteboom 26.00
Jean Marie Gustav Le Clezio 26.00
Don DeLillo 34.00
Inger Christensen 34.00
Eeva Kilpi 101.00

It's great to see this part of the world represented by Indonesian Pramoedya Ananta Toer , but my loyalties are seriously divided because Kundera and DeLillo are on the list too!

A Toast To Mr. Wong

How would you like to spend a year, all expenses paid, at the University of East Anglia doing the M.A. in Creative Writing? The only catch is that you need to be working on a novel about South East Asia.
The David TK Wong Fellowship is a unique and generous annual award - £25,000 to enable a fiction writer who wants to write in English about the Far East to spend a year in the UK, at the University of East Anglia in Norwich.

The Fellowship is named for its sponsor Mr. David Wong, a retired Hong Kong businessman, who has also been a teacher, journalist and senior civil servant, and is a writer of short stories himself.

The shortlisted entries will be judged by a distinguished international panel, and since there will be no interviews, candidates will be judged entirely on the quality and promise of their writing, and the project they describe. There is no age limit, and no means test of any kind.
Yes, I did a double take when I spotted this information posted up on the British Council's Animating Literature website. Did our friend, already there and bravely self-financed know about this? Did Tash?

The 2004 fellow was Thai/American writer Rattawut Lapcharoensap who's doing pretty well for himself.

Well, now I've told you just go for it! And if you're thinking to yourself, I don't need to learn to be a better writer, I say the course is not so much about learning to write as about making the right contacts and getting your foot in the door.

As if that news is not enough, here's something else that should interest you.
THE DAVID T K WONG PRIZE FOR SHORT FICTION

International PEN is delighted to announce a new prize to promote literary excellence in the form of the short story and to further the awareness of and support for the ideals of PEN worldwide. Unpublished stories, written in English, are welcome from writers world-wide but stories must incorporate one or more of International PEN's ideals as set out in its Charter. Since the prize also hopes to help raise funds for individual centres, entries should not be sent direct to International PEN but should be submitted via the entrant's local PEN Centre.

The first prize is £7,500.
Further details (and how can you resist this?) here.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Booker Bores

Aiyolah! The spillover. The venom. The agonising post-mortem ...

I'm truly sorry for all my regular readers who are scratching their heads and wondering what on earth is the big deal with this Booker business which may not seem very important to most folks - enthusiastic readers even - in this part of the world. (Don't think I don't see my counter numbers dropping ...)

But I'm gonna be a Booker bore and chuck more links at you just so you can see how things are being chewed up and down both here and there. I am throroughly enjoying the debate.

Start at the Independent where Boyd Tonkin has declared the decision of the Man Booker Prize committee:
the worst, certainly the most perverse, and perhaps the most indefensible choice in the 36-year history of the contest
He hurls plenty of invective Banville-ward:
icy and over-controlled exercise in coterie aestheticism ... chilly perfection of a waxwork model ... glacial evocation ... lifeless, pallid work ...
You didn't like it then, Mr. Tonkin? But I can't blame him for being more than a little pissed off that Banville shredded McEwan's novel in The New York Review of Books and probably jeopardized the novel's chances ...

Then Subtext Whore finds the whole 2005 shortlist sadly lacking compared to the books that made it through last year ... Most inspired line:
Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, yet another dystopic vision of cloning, reads like a nested story from Cloud Atlas, and seems less worthy because of it.
And nearer home our own Hari Kingston chews over the issues arising ... with specific reference to our own peripheral literary status. Would Tash have got long-listed if he's chosen to publish here? Would he even have been published here?

Certainly not and probably not are my answers. Very very very sadly. We have to do something.

Hari proposes that dear old Raman, superhero of the literary universe should initiate our own literary award "The Silvers". What is this Hari trying to stir up, hey?

Anyway, I'm posting this just before bed and no doubt by the morning there will be a tidal wave of opinions to cope with.

And this really is the fun. More than the bloody books!

An Appropriated Language

Laughed at this quote from Banville in an Independent interview last month:
Peculiarly for Irish writers, English isn't really our language. We might have spoken it for 200 years, but we don't necessarily always feel at home in it. The problem for us Irish novelists is that we publish in London and are reviewed in England by English reviewers who often regard Irish novels as a failed attempt to be English. I read something the other day that referred to the 'Celtic fringe' of writers. I thought: Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, Yeats, Beckett - if this is the Celtic fringe, where would I find the full head of hair?

Winner-Take-All-Mechanism

A little cynicism about the Booker is called for says the Grumpy Old Bookman. The "merciless winner-take-all mechanism which accompanies this annual jamboree" does no-one any good he says in an essay reprinted from last year.
When you and I are faced with a book, and asked to say whether it is a masterpiece or an overblown piece of self-indulgent nonsense, there is no universally recognised scale against which we can measure the book and come to a clear conclusion. Judging a book is a matter of taste and sensibility, and you are likely to maintain that your taste and sensibility are superior to mine. (You are probably right, since my taste is notoriously vulgar.)

As far as the Booker Prize is concerned, it is safe to say that the choice of the ‘best’ book of the year is inevitably a matter of opinion rather than fact. And not even unanimous opinion. In almost every year there are press reports of disagreements among the judges, and in some years we hear of ‘compromise choices’ or the chairman’s casting vote. We also know that, in one particular case, the eventual winner was unusually ‘fortunate’.
Yann Martell's win for Life of Pi in 2002 he points out was as flukey as hell, he says. But it's the fallout from the prize which most concerns him:
... observe, please, what happens when the winner of the Booker Prize is announced (in any year). What happens is that the media, the critics, and the public, all behave as if there is some absolute sense in which the winner is the best book of the year. They act as if the book has been held up against a ruler, a universally agreed scale, and has been found, indisputably, and scientifically, to be ‘better’ than any other.
And while the winner is feted, it's pretty much at the expense of other novels.

I actually think the Booker is a good thing. It gets readers thinking about, talking about, comparing books on the list. It creates a dialogue about what the novel is and where it's heading. But yes, we must keep a healthy sense of proportion about the whole procedings. There are other excellent novels on the shortlist. Other excellent novels on the longlist. And other excellent novels which did not make it to either.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Omigosh - Banville Won!


John Banville's The Sea won the Booker.
Am I surprised? Nope because the book is excellent. Because I feel Banville moves the novel into new territory - (as I said in an earlier post, can't think of another writer who has captured memory as beautifully as this writer).

So yes, I'm happy with the decision.

And for most readers, I don't think the book is as enjoyable a read as others on the list. It's beautifully written sure - but slow and meandering and melancholy.

According to The Financial Times chairman of the panel, John Sutherland:
... commented on the judges’ debate with the usual politesses – “civilised argument”, “closely contested” etc – but paid eloquent tribute to the winner’s “masterly” and “virtuoso” writing. The Sea is an elegy of grief and love remembered: Sutherland dramatically referred to it as a “slit-your-throat” novel, but its prevailing mood is melancholy.
This is the way the voting went in the People's Booker:
498 for Kazuo Ishiguro
430 for Julian Barnes
240 for Zadie Smith
198 for Ali Smith
181 for John Banville
132 for Sebastian Barry
If you're the kind of reader who values good storytelling above style - go for the Barnes or the Ishiguro or Zadie Smith because you will enjoy yourself much more.

Postscript:

If you can bear any more about Banville, nice piece from the Guardian . Apparently Banville is a very difficult guy to live with when he's writing. His demeanor is compared to that of "a murderer who's just come back from a particularly bloody killing".

Monday, October 10, 2005

When To Stop Making Excuses

I bought The Last Night of the Earth Poems by beat poet Charles Bukowski because the following poem jumped out from between the pages and bit me. As it should do you, if you always put off your writing because circumstances are not quite right. Pin this one up by your writing desk.


air and light and time and space

"–you know, I’ve either had a family, a job,
something has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have
a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

© Charles Bukowski, Black Sparrow Press

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Sherlock Rides Again

From my review of Julian Barnes' Arthur and George in Starmag today:

IN the mid-19th century Britain, the Great Wryly Outrages made legal history. A young solicitor was wrongly convicted of brutally slashing cattle in rural Staffordshire and later pardoned. The case eventually led to the setting up of the Criminal Appeals Court, but the human side of the story had been all but lost until Julian Barnes decided to make this the subject of his 10th novel.

The Arthur of the title is no other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the great detective Sherlock Holmes. While plenty is known about Doyle’s life from his own memoirs and writings, almost nothing is recorded about George Edalji, the young man accused of the crime. It’s a tribute to Barnes’ skill as a storyteller that George emerges no less fully fleshed than Arthur – and even the more interesting of the two.

The lives and characters of the two men and the forces that shaped them are brought into sharp contrast in short alternating chapters mapping out their earliest memories, family life, schooling and early careers. Arthur is raised by his “Mam” on a diet of chivalric stories that feed his desire to live as heroic a life as possible while George is the son of a vicar, a shy, serious boy raised to be scrupulously truthful.

George’s upbringing seems to be quintessentially English, so it comes as something of a shock to learn several pages into the novel that his father is in fact a Parsee born in India. Could the cruel spate of anonymous letters and hoaxes aimed at his family be racially motivated? George does not even want to entertain the idea, even in the harrowing court scenes where it is clear that he is being framed and sentenced to hard labour for a crime that it would have been impossible for him to commit.

One wonders which of the men actually needs the other more as their lives come together when Arthur is asked to take on the case. After years of trying to behave honourably towards both his sick wife Touie and the woman whom he truly loves, Arthur feels he has reached a crisis point in his own life and he welcomes the distraction. And having killed off Sherlock Holmes at the Reichenbach falls (in The Final Problem), he is only too happy to jump into the role of his detective hero.

Arthur’s powers of deduction prove every bit as sharp as those of the fictional Holmes, and with his secretary Woods serving as his Watson, he manages to solve the case with an ease that comes as something of a disappointment to him. He puts together a case to clear George’s name and he eventually secures for him a pardon (although, sadly, without compensation).

Barnes writes in a prose style that is both elegant and gently humorous. Meticulously researched, historical fact and fiction are woven together seamlessly. The issues raised by the book, particularly that of the insidious effects of racial prejudice on the course of justice, are certainly of contemporary importance.

Above all, though, Arthur & George is simply an example of storytelling at its best.
In the same section Daphne Lee reviews Zadie Smith's On Beauty and judges it to be an undemanding read, and one which will leave you wanting more; and Eddin Khoo pays moving tribute to Dollah Baju Merah.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Pinter Pinned

Harold Pinter's new dramatic work for radio, Voices. BBC Radio 3 will broadcast the world premiere on the playwright's 75th birthday - Monday 10th October at 9.30pm GMT. If you can't get up that early in the morning ('cos it would be 5.30 a.m here!) the play will be available to listen to for two more weeks at the BBC website.

We live in an age of miracles, friends. How did we ever manage without the internet?

The full story can be found at Splinters.

Postscript:

Here's an interview with Pinter about the play from the Independent.

World Poetry Day

Poetry: Rentboy of the arts

Loitering with the other tarts

Knowing far more than it should

Much too much for its own good

The Independent's resident poet Martin Newell thusly praises the art in celebration of World Poetry Day.

(I wondered why I felt poetic this morning. Must be that time of year.)

So You Want to Write Chick Lit?

Bookslut linked to a great article from Radar on how to write chick lit.

With this formula in hand writing the next Bridget Jones for your Nanowrimo novel could be a breeze!

Postscript

Fans of the genre will also enjoy this article that appeared in Melbourne's The Age some time ago.

Friday, October 07, 2005

A Poem for Aliens

"If the Martians can translate this and interpret it, it will give them an interesting view of human nature!"
astronomer/ presenter Sir Patrick Moore said about Adrian Mitchell's poem Human Beings.

The Poetry Society asked Guardian readers to vote for the poem they would most like to see sent into outer space for the edification of any possible little green men there might be out there. Mitchell's poem can be read here.

Harry Potter Gay?

Oh dear, political incorrectness lands this children's writer in a shitload of trouble!

Postscript

The author puts his side.

The Literary Landscape of Singapore

And talking (as we were) about the problems that writers face locally and elsewhere, a friend (thanks Jes!) very kindly posted me photocopy of an article about Singapore's Literary Scene. It's called Writer's Block by Elaine Meyers, but I'm not sure of the title of the magazine is appeared in (I-S?) I couldn't find an online link to it, so what follows is just selected highlights. I'm posting this because I think that there are interesting parallels with the situation for writers in English in Malaysia. (If you find it a bit boring, save it to read before bed!)

Meyers begins by saying that Singapore is nowhere on the world's literary map and at least "the neighbours to the north" have Tash Aw. (See, Malaysia boleh!)

Then she talks about the various reasons for this beginning with publication. Marshall Cavendish (formerly Times Publishing) is the largest publisher in Singpaore but only publish two to six manuscripts a year. There are only a handful of other publishers who publish local writing. Ethos used to be a key publisher of Singaporean fiction but today does not publish new titles. Goh Eck Kheng of Landmark Books says it has been a long time since he received a manuscript that he wanted to publish. (So are Singaporean authors just not making the grade?)

The only publisher which seems to be thriving and publishing new stuff at the moment is First Fruits which focuses on poetry. Poetry apparently attracts the largest number of new, young and active writers in Singapore. (If you want to know about the poetry scene in Singapore, this article by Alvin Pang is a very good introduction.)

Singaporean literature does not sell well. An average print run is only 2,000 copies (500 for poetry).

The only publisher which appears to have an international outlook is Monsoon Books which published Gerrie Lim's bestseller Invisible Trades. (Non-fiction though.)

Meyers says that Singaporean writers tend to look outside of Singapore for inspiration, both in style and content.

The most common themes are: "A sense of losing something, modernization, a migrant culture and claustrophobia."

Meyer says that Singapore lit is in a woeful state because literature is not a compulsory subject in school and don't grow up to be literary adults. Alvin Pang says "Include local writers in syllabi and everything will change." (The question of the role of literature teaching in schools is one that interests me greatly.)

The article ends on a positive note as Meyer highlights some of the most important recent developments.

The National Arts Council "is pulling its weight". The National Book Development Council has resurrected the Singapore Literature Prize. It also provides support for writers in the form of mentorship, courses, writing grants and scholarships.

Alvin Pang and Toh Hsien Min, started The Literary Centre in 2003, a non-profit centre that promotes the literary arts. Their main activity is the biennnial literature festival, Wordfeast.

Toh also founded and is editor-in chief of Singapore's online literary magazine, the excellent Quarterly Literary Review of Singapore (QLRS).

Meyer concludes: ... the heart of the matter is this: No matter how much money or how many resources we throw at Singaporean literature, we won't cut it unless we understand the value of literature, and make it part of our lives and our education."

I rather think she's right!

Deliberating on Donavan

Donavan Hall lives right across the world in Long Island New York but because we care about so many of the same issues, he really only lives next door. I was halfway through a wise and witty response to his post about how the problems facing writers where he lives in, are essentially the same as the problems writers face here, which was in turn a response to the interview Beth Yahp which I posted a couple of weeks ago.

And then Blogger went down for maintenance. Suddenly. Without warning. The words were lost and the mood was gone. I should compose offline like sensible people, but I'm not sensible. Perhaps greater forces were trying to tell me to stop pontificating!

Anyway, there's a lot of food to chew on in Donavan's post - how far do we share the same problems? Go take a read and let me know what you think. (Sharon in teacher mode, eliciting from the class!) It's a theme I'll be revisiting ...

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Agent Smith Endorses NaNoWriMo

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

Thanks, Kenny, for this bit of lunacy.

Apparently popularity overwhelmed the site when it reopened for sign-ups on 1st October. But everything is working fine now, and if you haven't already, commit yourself to the terror and elation of Nanodom.

My friend 3rd Chimp calls us Nanuts, which is nice.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Bainbridge at Seventy

"Why do I write? It is something that life forces you to do. If you had been very happy, perhaps you wouldn't have bothered."
Beryl Bainbridge interviewed in the Guardian.

My post about talking to Bainbridge here.

Orange Zest!

Just as we had the Booker of Bookers twelve years ago (my god, it seems like yesterday!), so now the Orange of Oranges has been deliberated upon and awarded.

Andrea Levy's Small Island was found to be the most appealing. (Pun completely intended.)

Oh dear ... I got halfway with it and put it down and forgot about it ... I guess I'd better dust it off and start again.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Booker Bookaholic Bets

It's just a few hours until the Man Booker Prize winner is announced. Hey, I'm excited!

And oh ... I've changed my mind about who I want to win. It's a bit presumptuous of me since I haven't read the whole shortlist, but I wonder if there really can be a stronger contender than Julian Barnes' Arthur and George which I've just finished reading. The story telling is compelling, the writing a joy, the characters fully fleshed and engaging, the historical research meticulous. I might be a smigeon prejudiced because much of the story is set in the Midlands where I come from and also because I have loved Sherlock Holmes since I was a kid, and in this book Barnes appropriates his creator and presses him into service to solve a real-life crime.

Yes, this should be the judges' choice.

The Man Booker website lets readers vote on their choice and yes, popular opinion puts Barnes ahead of all but the Ishiguro (my previous first choice and the one I staked my margueritas on).

Which way will it go?

The Nano's In Business!

October is here and November round the corner. Lunacy and insanity are in the air and the scent of 50,000 words drifts in on the breeze.

Your words, that is.

Your novel.

You, yes you. The novelist.

You are up to it, you know. No need to dissemble and be bashful and make a million excuses and hide under the dining table. You've always wanted to do it. You know you have.

And the good news is that those 50,000 words don't have to be great words. Or even good words. Or even mediocre words.

They can be utter total crap!

Who cares?! Who gives a toss?

This is not a test of wit or brilliance. It's a test of bum glue, pure and simple.

It's a matter of slog. Of getting words out day after day.

If you haven't a clue what I'm talking about go here and explore. (You might also like to read this Washington Post article.)

If you're so desperate to sign up for the ordeal that you're chewing your mouse-pad in anticipation, you will have to wait a day or two longer until the site's new server comes online, I'm afraid. In the meantime put some ketchup on that mouse-pad.

If you aren't sure whether you are suffiently insane to take on the challenge, go here.

If you think this is all rather silly and beneath you and your great novel will be accepted by the glitziest glossiest upmarketest bookshops across the globe sometime soon, then good luck to you and just push off and read a blog more erudite and sane.

If you think this is all silly and beneath you because you've written one of the novels on the Booker or Nobel shortlist ... yeah, well, you're probably right.

Seriously though, (just for a moment before abnormal service is resumed) the good news is that things are already happening behind the scenes. The NaNoWriMo website has been relaunched and is new and improved complete with podcasts to keep you motivated.

And here in Malaysia we have begun to get ourselves organised. The Scarfer and Erna have vounteered themselves as "Municiple Liaisons" (such an odd term, civil service-ish!) to coordinate events. Several more of us are helping behind the scenes in whatever way we can. (I'm trying to get us some sponsorship - at least in terms of organisations prepared to cheer us on.) We now even have a Nano blog for Malaysian participants.

Last year we had 40 participants and 10 finished novels. This year we want gazillions of both for this, the biggest writing competition on earth.

You on for it?

What do you have to lose? Except what little sanity you have left!

Monday, October 03, 2005

Gary Gets It Together!

Great! Gary Gan has finally got his website up and running, so if you have a book project you want to get off the ground, head over there.

Silverfish Lit Mag?

Raman is looking for book-gossip from any quarter. Yes, the man himself having decided that someone has to fight the corner for books since the newspapers don't seem to be doing a great job, and is determined to begin his own litmag. At present he's putting out a fortnightly free one page newsletter which you can pick up from the counter. (He's had his online version going for some time now.) He plans to extend it and grow it slowly into something bigger.

And he need folks to write for it. Bits of book news, ear to the ground gossip, the odd review of something read and loved.

Because no-one's doing it, right?

I tell him that I have my blog and I write about books and the local litscene (as best I can) and that I even write about him from time to time. At the mention of the word blog he screws his face up, sour lemon style.

Blogging, you see is a monumental waste of time. It's a way of messing around and not getting any "real" writing done.

And he's never read mine, (or won't admit to it!) even though I've given him the address many times. It's too unimportant a venture to even contemplate.

(I think blogging is actually a great deal better than print media! Immediate and interactive.)

But he's so right about their being so little media coverage about books and writers. This is something I'm continually frustrated about. The problem is that page space is limited and editors do not really have a budget to purchase the latest books for review. (I often buy my own.)

Well, I applaud Raman's efforts and his vision. If he cares enough to get something off the ground, I'll support him.

But: "I can't afford to pay you anything," he says "because I'm not making anything out of this."

Now me, I either write for love (my blog, my stories) or for money, so this puts me in a bit of a dilemma. Best solution - I'll e-mail him bits and pieces that I've blogged and let him use them as he will, provided that he sticks my name and URL on them.

Raman's shop had had something of a make-over: he's partitioned off a room at the back to house all those wonderful antiquarian books and serve as a meeting room/ area for readings. And he looks to be in the process of getting rid of a whole lot of clutter, at last. (Teach him something about feng-shui someone!)

Of course I only popped in for a chat but could not walk out bookless. Ended up with a volume of poems by Charles Bukowski which I will tell you about another day.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Writers and Readers for Peace

My heart goes out to all those in Bali affected by the latest round of terrorist bombings.

Glad I am too that the the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival 2005 will still go ahead as planned.

This is the media statement from the organisers:

Dear Friends

We are once again deeply saddened by last night’s terrorist attacks in Kuta. We also extend our sympathies to the lives lost over this senseless act of violence.

Our Festival was born out of the first bombing in Kuta. It was an attempt to lift the depleted spirit of the people of Ubud and use the power of the written word to heal and strengthen.

The Ubud Writers & Readers Festival will go ahead as planned. We will not allow the terrorists to stop an event that we believe ultimately will benefit all layers of the Ubud community.

High security at all venues will be guaranteed. This will include uniformed and plain-clothed police, bomb detectors, sniffer dogs and security checks. All venues are distant from the road and parking in front of these venues will not be allowed.

Our theme “Between Worlds” now reflects a life between peace and violence and how we survive in a changing world. We hope you will support us at a time when we need your help more than ever before.

Janet De Neefe
Some of our writers including Jerome and Dina were supposed to go, but I guess that now their participation remains in doubt ...

Some Further Thoughts on Banville's The Sea

Just to add a little coda.

Yes, again I feel that it it hard to do justice to such a complex novel with such a niggardly word limit. I wanted to write more about the characters, especially about Max the narrator whom I did not warm to at all. (Presumably we are meant to feel like this about him, Banville is much too skilled a writer to think otherwise, but then it begs the question - why?) I also must confess that although I felt that he wrote beautifully about his wife's illness (i was close to tears at times, particularly at the achingly sad scene in the kitchen after her diagnosis, and the description of her bleak photographs of the suffering of other patients in the hospital), the other thread of plot - the events of that fatefully childhood summer, never quite ring true.

Are most Malaysian readers going to enjoy this novel? I don't think so. I think many folks looking for a pacier, more accessible read will judge it to be slow and depressing. (I found it beautifully written and thought-provoking. But then I'm odd!)

But if you are a fiction writer or aspire to be one, then you should take a look under the bonnet and see how the engine works, and then see what you can take for yourself.

Most fiction writers are pretty clunky when it comes to handling time past and drawing on a character's memories: cue the heavy-handed flashback - a couple of pages about what happened five years ago with every little detail and line of dialogue realled intact and then back to the present in time for tea.

Our thought processes are much much messier than that! Just watch where your mind goes for any length of time and you have to agree. (Try to meditate and empty your mind and just see those little monkeys of thoughts scampering about!)

Many writers (most notably Joyce in Ulysses) adopted a 'stream-of-consciouness' style, which can place considerable demands on the reader. Banville's prose flows effortlessly from past to deeper past to present and back to pasts again without hiatus, excavating layers of memory and holding them up to the light. It's beautifully done, and I think so far no writer has done it better, although I hunger now to read that other great book about memory Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. (Was this an influence on Banville's prose?)

The Sea ,The Sea

From my review of John Banville's The Sea in the Star today:
THE past beats inside me like a second heart,” writes Max Morden, the elderly narrator of John Banville’s Booker Prize short listed The Sea. Max takes up lodging in a boarding house, The Cedars, in the small Irish seaside town where he once spent childhood holidays.

Ostensibly there to finish writing a book of art criticism, he makes instead a journey into the past, writing a memoir to make sense of his personal history. A tragedy is foreshadowed from the very first page of the novel.

The Sea is about memory and how we reconstruct the past for ourselves. We embroider and edit, recall insignificant details with perfect clarity and yet forget things that are important to us.

In Max’s narrative one memory conjures another as he moves between different layers of the past. Much of the story is told in a series of vignettes: time is frozen so that Max can step inside the frame and examine each detail for fresh significance.

Recently widowed, Max wanders back through “the chamber of horrors” in his head and revisits his wife Anna’s terminal illness, from prognosis to death. “She is lodged in me like a knife” he laments, yet already the memory of her is fading.

Memories are as “real” as anything in the physical world, he decides: “Which is more real, the woman reclining on the grassy bank of my recollections, or the strew of dust and dried marrow that is all the earth any longer retains of her?”

Max’s relationship with the Graces, another family he met at this town when he was a child, is also re-examined. The events of “the day of the strange tide” continue to haunt him and he hopes that by returning to The Cedars, which the family made their holiday home, he can make sense of what happened.

In flashbacks we watch as 10-year-old Max encounters the family on the beach and falls into an easy acquaintance with the strange twins, Myles and Chloe. Max, already aware of social distinctions, adopts the family hoping that something of their “godlike” stature will rub off on him.

Despite definite echoes of L.P. Hartley’s classic novel, The Go-between, this is not a tale of childhood innocence lost. The children taunt the child-minder, Rose, cruelly when they think they have discovered the object of her secret infatuation. (The truth is revealed much later.) Max harbours violent feelings for the strange web-footed mute, Myles, and feels for Mrs Grace with an emotional intensity that has him weeping for her in “rapturously love struck grief”, until he transfers his affections to the capricious and sexually precocious Chloe.

The twins, though, remain distant and inscrutable: the mysterious psychic bond between them so strong that, as Chloe tells Max, it’s as if they were a couple of convicts on the run, shackled together.

The Sea is an achingly melancholy and beautifully written novel. It is impossible to read it without feeling grief for our own small lives measured against the immensity of time and the uncaring physical universe.

Consequently, we do not feel a particular horror at the long anticipated tragedy played out at the end of the book. It is, Max realises, “just another of the great world’s shrugs of indifference” and there is a strange justice in the novel’s climax.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

The Passing of a Puppet Master

Some weeks ago I wrote about the Macbeth in the Shadows project: a collaboration between The British Council, Pusaka's Eddin khoo, British writer/illustrator Edward Carey and Tok Dalang Dollah Baju Merah. The play was supposed to have been staged at the same time as Theatre Babel's production of Macbeth.

Tragically, Pak Dollah passed away on 26th September. Kakiseni has the full story, and you can read an interview with the puppet-master here.

Malaysia has lost another irreplacable performer of traditional art forms: Pak Dollah's expertise died with him, for he had no apprentice to pass his skills on to.

(Picture from Malay Mail)

Friday, September 30, 2005

Painted Piggies, Wingging Words

Do go read Leon's poem about his reading at 67, Jalan Tempinis 1. He captures the whole experience so well.

And so does Nizam on his fotoblog! There's one of Leon strutting his stuff. Go see.

Being Bennett

Alan Bennett is a writer I love for his humanity, sense of voice and sheer audacity. Perhaps if my fairy godmother waved her wand at me and asked me which writer I'd most like to be, I'd choose to be Bennett for those very qualities. (Yes, even over Annie Proulx!)

I didn't manage to catch all five of hisTalking Heads monologues serialised by the BBC, but they were extremely funny and well observed. I love his long short stories The Clothes They Stood Up In and The Laying on of Hands, as well as his account of an elderly lady who parked her van in front of his house and proceeded to live there for several years.

Now Bennett has a new book out, Untold Stories, about his mother's mental illness. Reading this extract from the Telegraph struck a chord, became my mother too began to imagine that there were spies everywhere (tapping the phone, intercepting the mail, everything a plot against her or her family - even my husband losing a legal case across the world in Malaysia was her fault according to her warped logic).

Bennett's mother suffered from depression, a condition which Bennett says is largely ignored by the medical profession:
Depression, which is much the most common mental illness, doesn't even qualify as such and mustn't be so labelled, perhaps because it's routine and relatively unshowy; but maybe, too, because it's so widespread not calling depression mental illness helps to sidestep the stigma.
It makes me deeply angry that any kind of mental illness carries a stigma because it makes it so hard for suffers to seek the treatment they need. This is a corner I would love to fight myself, and I'm glad that Bennett is writing about it.

Postscript:

More on Bennett's new book from the Guardian.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Crazymakers

Ah me. At times when I start feeling sorry for myself I pick up one of Julia Cameron's books for a good kick up the arse.

Her attitude can be summarised as "Quit moaning - the problems in your life are your own because you let them be". (My paraphrase.) And painful as it is to take on board, she's right. Tough love, because tough love is needed. For writers. For all creatives. Hell, for just about anyone who wants to live happily ever after.

One thing she's tough about, is getting rid of the folks she calls crazymakers. She writes in The Artist's Way:

A ... thing that creatives do to avoid being creative is to involve themselves with crazymakers. Crazymakers are those personalities that create storm centres. They are often charismatic, frequently charming, highly inventive, and powerfully persuasive. And, for the creative person in their vicinity, they are enormously destructive. ... Crazymakers are the kind of people who can take over your whole life. To fixer-uppers they are irresistible ...
And she identifies a few behaviours that crazymakers exhibit (though I reckon that no single crazy maker encompasses all these behaviours - could anyone be that bad?)
  • Crazymakers break deals and destroy schedules
  • Crazymakers expect special treatment.
  • Crazymakers discount your reality.
  • Crazymakers spend your time and money.
  • Crazymakers triangulate those they deal with.
  • Crazymakers are expert blamers.
  • Crazymakers create dramas - but seldom where they belong.
  • Crazymakers hate schedules - except their own.
  • Crazymakers hate order.
  • Crazymakers deny that they are crazymakers.
  • I'd add to the list that crazymakers seldom know the word 'thank you', and never ever the word 'sorry'. Anything you do for them is never more than they expected anyway, and nothing that goes wrong can possibly be their fault. They are what you might call, emotionally dyslexic.

    I worked with the worst crazy maker I've ever known, not so long ago and barely survived the experience with my sanity intact. I live with a part-time crazy maker who he can still have me in tears of exasperation, even though I should be wiser by now. I had a crazy maker mum who destroyed my confidence. Others, I've let into my life by choice, because although I knew from the start that they were crazy, I cared enough to want to help. (Yep, am a "fixer-upper" for sure.) They exact a heavy emotional toll they exact, and deplete your creative energy.

    Well, Cameron says we are only involved with them because we are self-destructive and are trying to block our own creativity. We self-sabotage rather well.

    The Booker That Shoulda

    Which was the Booker that got away? I'd have to say A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry.

    Wednesday, September 28, 2005

    Pulling In Pullman

    Fans of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy will no doubt be thrilled to learn that Pullman will be a special guest of BBC World on 17th November. Pullman will be talking about the first novel in the series Northern Lights (called The Golden Compass in the US).

    Your participation in the show is invited. If you'd like the BBC to record you asking your question, send an e-mail to worldbookclub@bbc.co.uk, remembering to include your telephone number.

    Am I a fan? I read the trilogy with mixed feelings. Loved the parallel universe idea, Lyra's familiar yet strange Oxford, the animal companions who reflect the state of your soul (now what did he call them? - anyway I want one!), and wept buckets at the end of the final book. But talking polar bears, sorry, disbelief refused to be suspended quite that far.

    Jesus Lived in India!

    Kumar (our only Book Club guy) sent me a review of a book which is bound to spark some daVinciCode-esque controversy. (How's that for a word coining?)

    German author Holger Kersten asserts that we've been getting it all wrong about the life and crucifixion of Christ for a couple of millenia - actually, as the title of the book states: Jesus Lived in India. I leave you to unravel the debate and to make up your own minds about the scholarliness and veracity (or otherwise) of Kersten's claims, but will slip in this link to a dissenting voice.

    Intriguing theory though and a book I'd sure like to read.

    Tuesday, September 27, 2005

    Changing the Inner World

    Conversational Reading invites debate on the list of Top 40 Most Important Works in the World, 1927 - present posted on the World Literature Today website.

    So much on this list I haven't read (to my shame and ever increasing bookguilt), but I'd place Brecht's Mother Courage and Her Children, Grass' The Tin Drum, Lessing's The Golden Notebook, Solzhenitsyn One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich on a list of books that changed my inner world forever.

    A Burning Issue

    Tossed the question into the air somewhat flippantly the other day, can novelists change the world?

    Robert Mcfarlane writing in the Guardian's Science and Nature pages thinks so:
    The authoritative bibliography of American and British nuclear literature runs to over 3,000 items: it includes Ian McEwan's oratorio "Or Shall We Die", JG Ballard's The Terminal Beach, Martin Amis's Einstein's Monsters, Raymond Briggs's When The Wind Blows, as well as work by Edward Abbey, Ray Bradbury, Upton Sinclair, Neville Shute. This literature did not only annotate the politics of the nuclear debate, it helped to shape it. As well as feeding off that epoch of history, it fed into it.
    Can writers now steer world opinion about climate change, surely the biggest challenge currently facing us?
    It does not yet, with a few exceptions, exist as art. Where are the novels, the plays, the poems, the songs, the libretti, of this massive contemporary anxiety? ... The question is pressing. For an imaginative repertoire is urgently needed by which the causes and consequences of climate change can be debated, sensed, and communicated.
    Fortunately, it looks as if there are several novelists prepared to come to the rescue:
    ... a fortnight ago, I was part of an unorthodox conference, hosted by the Environmental Change Institute at Oxford University, at which 30 scientists and 30 artists - including McEwan, Philip Pullman, Caryl Churchill and Gretel Ehrlich - were brought together to discuss how art and science might collaborate in fighting climate change.
    He adds on a slightly grimmer note:
    ...it may become hard for writers not to take climate change as their subject.